


maybe everything

by spheeris1



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Post-Series, Stream of Consciousness, the complex feelings of killers and almost-killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 14:28:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14813132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spheeris1/pseuds/spheeris1
Summary: one-shot // villanelle p.o.v. // post-S1 // Life goes on, but with a few changes along the way





	maybe everything

/ / /

You gave her one to match. Eventually.

It took some planning, but you are good at that. You like a good plan. You like to savor a few choice details, picking your moment like choosing a fine wine, and then you execute whatever you have in mind.

You gave her something to remember you by. Whenever she is angry. Whenever she is bored.

Maybe she touches it like you do your own. Caresses it. Drags her nails over it. Maybe she becomes worked up over it, audacity mixed with longing, and she finally gives in to what you never denied – pleasure and pain, kill or be killed...

...maybe she feels like you do, maybe she always has.

/

You still masturbate about her. Nothing's changed, not really.

And you stayed away from her for a while, stayed away and healed and annoyed your new handler. You bucked their rules, like you tend to do, and they were less forgiving. You saw his stupid face one day – of course that old bastard isn't dead – and you weren't sure if you felt happy or sad that you didn't manage to kill him.

You had to give up Paris. You had to give up more than that, but what does any of that matter anyway?

And you stayed away from her, until you didn't want to anymore. So, you got a flight to London and you ignored all the calls – threatening you, bothering you – and you found her. Watched her walk from home to work and back again. Watched her eat. Watched her fall asleep on the couch. Watched her roll her eyes at someone and watched her sigh at another someone.

You kind of hate her. You kind of adore her. You should give her up. You can't, though, you just can't.

So, nothing's changed.  
Not really.

/

“Are you going to kill me?”

She's asked you that question more than any other words she has ever said to you. So repetitive. But this time it is a little different, you can tell that much – she's not curious, she's not scared, she's not nervously giddy with her own needs. No, this time... this time...

“Do you want me to kill you?”

And she exhales, like she's been holding something more than air in her lungs. And she huffs out a sort-of laugh and her eyes close and her head falls forward, right onto your shoulder.

“No.”

And for a second, neither one of you move – her with her head on your shoulder, you with something sharp up your sleeve. It's nice, this moment. And you exhale, like you've been holding back something, too.

“Okay.”

I mean, you stick the blade into her anyway. Because, how can you not? This isn't revenge, at least not by much; this is balancing out the scales. Now, you are both even. You do it quick, and yes, you press it in a little bit, but if you survived than so can she. She's tough, this you know, and she's cursing you and her face goes pale and you step back as she slides to the floor.

You sit the phone by her trembling hand.  
You hand her a dish-towel.

It's more than she got to do for you, after all, so you feel pretty good about things.

“Find me again sometime.”

She growls at you – actually growls, like a pissed off puppy – and you grin at her before you slip out the door once again.

/

The jobs come and go. You are too good at what you do to ever be truly sacrificed. But they keep closer tabs on you nowadays. You have to check in and they are not amused by you like the others used to be. Your new flat is not as nice. This city isn't as fun. Your job has become a little more like a “job” and you almost wish you could walk away from all of this.

There are a million places you could go.  
There are a million lives you could take on.  
You could become anyone, if you wanted to, if you had to.

But there are still perks. The planning. The details. The games. The end of a life, gazing at that light going out in someone's eyes.

It's still who you are, isn't it?  
You could never, ever actually walk away from any of this.

/

She's there one day. Sitting on your couch. You glance around, looking for broken glass or torn clothing – you make a point of doing so, in fact, and she smirks at you. But you don't see anything amiss so far and so you sit down as well, away from her but inviting all the same.

“You've been busy.”  
“Bills to pay, you know how it is.”  
“I do... Do you mind that I am here?”  
“Could have called first.”  
“I don't have your number.”  
“Would you like to have it, Eve?”

You look at her. Study her. Search for weapons as best you can – the way she sits, the placement of her hands. You run your stare over her face, over new lines and old troubles, over the things she cannot say that rest on her lips. You seek out each breath she takes, wait for the rise and fall of her chest, and count the seconds in between.

God, you could watch her for days and days and never get weary.

“Do you, uh... we could watch something, if you like...while I'm here...”

She doesn't answer your question, but she gives you something more tantalizing, something more intriguing. And it's not like you trust her and it's not like she trusts you either, but something has changed. Maybe it is down to nothing more than timing. Maybe it is down to the scars you both now carry, thanks to each other. Maybe it's down to exhaustion, bone-deep, the kind that no one else could ever understand.

Maybe it's down to everything – you, her, all you've done and all you are both bound to do – and she slides over on the couch, making room for you, and you are probably stupid for doing this... and she is probably stupid, too...

...but whatever, right?

“Sure. Okay.”

You'd rather be stupid with her than with anyone else anyway.

/

You work hard. You do a good job. The money is piling up, so you take a trip or two – just for fun. You send her postcards, a gift or two. She never writes you back, even though she knows where you live. She never calls, even though you put your number into her phone – she didn't ask for it, but you know she wants it.

You still track her, once in a while. See what she is up to. Shake her up with a random appearance or two. It still bothers her, but you don't feel bad about it. If she can show up to your place unannounced, so can you. It's your thing with one another now.

You ask her – once – to come with you to Salamanca. She stumbles over her response and you think she is blushing a little, flustered but still so attractive, and she says no but you notice her fidgeting with her hands.

You'll ask her again someday.

/

One night, she falls asleep next to you. The movie is still playing out on the screen, volume low enough to not be bothersome, and her hair has fallen over her face and you hear a tiny snore or two.

And you think she is a fool.  
And you think you love her.  
And you should kill her now.  
But you can't. You never can.

You push her hair back and allow your fingers to slip down her cheek. And she turns slightly into your touch, and her voice is so damn soft – _“good-night”_ – and you want to kiss her and maybe she wants you to kiss her, too, but then she shifts away and sinks into the couch once more and you can't help but chuckle to yourself, shaking your head as you get up and leave her there.

So, you know, nothing's changed.  
Not really.

/

But then again, maybe everything has.

/ / /

**(end)**

**Author's Note:**

> Goddamn, this show is so good. Anyway. All mistakes are mine, open-ended endings are funny beasts, etc. Don't ask me why, but major inspiration came from listening to 'Girlfriend' by Christine and the Queens over and over.


End file.
